


One Hail Mary for the Hole in my Heart

by Rokutagrl



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Hanahiki AU, Hanahiki Disease, M/M, OiKage Week 2018, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-01
Updated: 2018-11-01
Packaged: 2019-08-14 01:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16483361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rokutagrl/pseuds/Rokutagrl
Summary: “How dare you spread this slander about me,” Oikawa gasps, straightening a glare at his best friend. A practiced hand taps his chest, just over his heart. “In my own home, Iwa-chan.”Iwaizumi continues unphased, "I used to think you liked the guy until you were hellbent on hating him."Oikawa receives an unexpected visit from his best friend, and some hard to swallow news.





	One Hail Mary for the Hole in my Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written for Oikage Week but I couldn't really get the words to work for the longest time, but I'm finally satisfied enough with it! Anyway: Happy Halloween! Art is by @deadfreckledboys on tumblr!
> 
> I've always wanted to explore the aftermath of the Hanahiki Disease, for people who didn't get their happy ending. And for some people who were too late. This fic does not have graphic depictions of the puking, just a vague memory of it mentioned. And for anyone who doesn't know the lore behind Hanahiki Disease:
> 
> An illness born from one-sided love, where the patient throws up and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from one-sided love. The infection can be removed through surgery, but the feelings disappear along with the petals. In certain versions, as this one, the afflicted person will generally puke the favorite flower of their beloved.

_Empire blues._

 

Oikawa sees the blemish of blues and purples first, sitting under the crook of his best friend's arm like a bloom of bruises. Whenever Iwaizumi shifts, the cone of pink plastic crinkles around the stalk of flowers. The little buds wave in unison and watching them lights a tickle in the back of Oikawa's throat.

 

For a moment he considers letting the door close back shut and returning to his room for an afternoon nap. Iwaizumi would forgive him, eventually. He always did.

 

“My, my, Iwa-chan,” he lilts instead, fluttering his gaze upwards. Iwaizumi shuffles again and their eyes do not meet. “I had no idea you were in town.”

 

Oikawa takes a pointed look at the bouquet. “Have you come to properly woo me?”

 

Iwaizumi wrinkles his nose as he cuts his own gaze up to meet Oikawa’s finally. The scowl on his face feels more comfortable, at home.

 

“I didn’t buy these for you, Trashykawa.” His eyes soften again when he glances at the flowers a second later. “Can I put these in water?”

 

There's a hint of vulnerability that comes through in his tone that spurs a stutter in Oikawa’s chest, so he moves aside to let his friend in despite the protest that leadens his bones and sits heavy on his shoulders.

 

Without assistance, Iwaizumi finds a vase in the kitchen. Oikawa's ears fill with the roar of the faucet as he takes a seat at the dining table. The crystal is heavy with it’s new purpose when Iwaizumi plunks it on the dark wood in front of him.

 

Oikawa glowers at the presentation; he doesn’t remember keeping the vase. It’s not as if he buys flowers anyways--not for himself. It had been a keepsake from his mother, when he’d first moved away from home, insisting that, one day, he might.

 

He pushes the glass a few good inches further along the table, away from himself. Little buds stir and flutter off their stems and his skin prickles where they touch him, soft and barely there.

 

“Have you had lunch yet?” Iwaizumi asks. He towers over Oikawa, a firm hand clamping on his shoulder.

 

Oikawa flips his eyes to the window, the afternoon sun already filtering in through the half closed blinds. Dust dances between the rays of light and the bags under Oikawa's eyes suddenly feel more present.

 

“Oh my, is it morning?”

 

Iwaizumi is frowning when Oikawa looks back up.

 

“What about breakfast?” Oikawa hums in response and Iwaizumi’s brows furrow. “Don’t tell me you’ve been up all night again and haven’t eaten shit?”

 

Oikawa hums again, this time adding in a shrug. When Iwaizumi’s fingers give a minute squeeze he adds, “You told me not to tell you, Iwa-chan!” This earns him a half-hearted swat to the back of his head.

 

“I’ll make us something to eat,” Iwaizumi huffs. As he stalks back into the kitchen, Oikawa can hear him grumble, “Don’t know how you’ve managed to stay alive on your own.”

 

“If Iwa-chan’s so worried about me, maybe he should move back here,” Oikawa titters. He tilts sideways in his chair, using one hand as leverage against the table to prop his seat on its hind legs. The light above the stovetop flickers on in the other room, barely noticeable among the natural light already flooding in through the archway.

 

“I like my job,” Iwaizumi grunts in reply. A cabinet door opens with a harsh slam. Oikawa can hear the pots and pans clank together as Iwaizumi fiddles about.

 

Over the lip of the vase one of the branches slumps itself into Oikawa’s peripherals. His stomach churns at the sight of it. The blue of the bouquet is intense-- _gleaming,_ even--popping out amongst the dingy, minimalistic decorations of his apartment.

 

Oikawa breathes out for a long moment. “Why’d you bring me flowers?”

 

“Not for you,” Iwaizumi repeats. The faucet roars back on, rising water echoing distinctly in the hollow of a metal pot.

 

“Oh~?” Oikawa sings over the noise. “Did you get dumped by a less hot date, then?”

 

“Are you being coy, or do you not actually know?”

 

The pot drops with a heavy _thunk_ on the stove and the burner clicks on in the silence between them.

 

Iwaizumi pops his head around the separating wall. His eyes squint darkly at Oikawa until he shakes his head cautiously. With a sigh, Iwaizumi leans up against the opposite wall, still regarding Oikawa with a skilled skepticism. “I heard Kageyama was hospitalized, so I thought I'd bring him flowers.”

 

“How kind,” Oikawa drawls in reply. The chair legs make a heavy thunk against the tiled floor when Oikawa releases his grasp on the table's edge, flicking a finger at the branch leaning closest to him. A few more of the buds dislodge and shuffle amongst each other in the air to mingle on the stained wood of the table with the rest of their kin. “So what's wrong with him? Must be serious if you’re bringing his favorites, huh?”

 

When he turns back, Iwaizumi is blinking at him, muddled. “How did you know they were his favorites?”

 

The stare between them breaks when something hisses in the kitchen. Iwaizumi cusses and retreats behind the wall once more. Oikawa waits a moment to see if he will return before righting himself in his seat.

 

Across the table the buds stare Oikawa down, like little blue eyes brimming with bright curiosity. Oikawa glares back.

 

He’d been bewitched by them once before, the very first time he’d seen a wild growth of the _Empire Blues_ along his route to middle school. There had been a pair of eyes on his mind then, too, when he’d plucked several of their stalks, filling his hand with a bouquet fit for a king. And for a brief moment, Oikawa had thought the dirt caked under his nails, uncomfortably deep, was equivalent enough of an exchange to watch the blossom of affection illuminate behind those very same, ocean-dark eyes when he’d presented his gift.

 

“Did he tell you?” Iwaizumi speaks up finally from the other room. A metal utensil scrapes loudly along the edge of the pot as Iwaizumi stirs their lunch around.

 

"No," Oikawa says, teeth aching from the sound grating in his ears. He props both of his elbows on the table and plops his chin in the space between his palms. Oikawa lightly pushes a finger each against the small bit of flesh arching over his ear drums to drown out some of the noise. He trains his gaze pointedly away from the flowers, yet the tingling sensation of being watched lingers. “He didn’t have to.”

 

 

“You’ve heard of that flower disease, right?"   

 

Oikawa just barely hears the question. He chooses to say nothing. His face slumps past his wrist, one cheek hitting on the table as he reaches his fingers across to the other edge, just until his back muscles strain through the long stretch. Against his cheek the table feels cool, vaguely comforting, particularly about the swollen skin beneath his eyes.

 

In the other room, he can hear Iwaizumi return to cutting up ingredients. Oikawa's heart picks up the rhythmic _thump, thump, thump-_ ing the knife makes against the counter. It’s the same curl of anxiety, same rush of adrenaline in his veins, as if he’s been hitting volleys against an opponent who refuses to back down.

 

He considers letting the silence continue up until Iwaizumi prompts him for an answers.  He admits, “My family's got a history of it.”

 

“Kageyama's, too,” Iwaizumi tells him. A pause and then, “Learned that _today_. After I got to the hospital,” Iwaizumi says. The knife drops sharply on the counter.

 

Oikawa's heart drops into his gut with the same, sickening speed.

 

“ _After_ I got the bouquet.”

 

Oikawa tries to laugh, the image of Iwaizumi offering up the exact symptom of the malady completely unaware just _too good_ , but all he manages is a chuckle that sounds vaguely like a cough.

 

“So Tobio-chan got the surgery, huh?” Oikawa mutters. He smacks a frustrated hand against the table, but the vibration causes more petals to loosen from their branches above and flitter mockingly down to Oikawa’s eye level. With a huff of hot air they scatter even further along the table, several fluttering over the edge.

He trades one cheek for the other against the cool surface. From here the butterfly bush looms over him, tall and proud. _Impending_ , somehow, feels apt. Up close, the buds smell emetically sweet.  

 

"I can't hear you in the other room," Iwaizumi calls out.

 

When Oikawa breathes in to reply, it is just a little too sharply, a little too deeply, and for a moment a phantom fullness caves in through the back of his throat. His fingers touch along the curve of his Adam's apple, an old fear of what might come up and out lurching in his stomach, seizing his body in a panic.

 

“Oikawa?”

 

He chokes--and somewhere in the back of his mind he is in middle school again, cheeks pressed to the cool tile of the bathroom floor surrounded by the evidence of his unrequited--

 

“ _Oikawa_ !” Iwaizumi calls out again, voice ringing with nerves. Instinctively Oikawa swallows down, hard, and manages to call back, _“Don’t worry,”_ and takes in a succession of long, deep breaths.

 

When he licks along the roof of his mouth the remnant taste of bile is stuck there -- _god_ there’s bile-- and it tastes almost sweet, almost bitter-- and it shouldn't taste in any way nostalgic but it _does,_ like a souvenir of being young, and stupid, and in love.

 

And so he thinks aloud, “Serves him right, honestly.”

 

There’s a sharp slap against his scalp. Iwaizumi shadows over him again and Oikawa sits up, frowning.

 

"What a shitty thing to say, _shittykawa_ ,” Iwaizumi tells him gruffly. He shoves a bowl of food just under Oikawa's chin, prompting him to take it. The smell of garlic is heavy and distinct. “Not even you would deserve it.”

 

"Thanks," Oikawa says, unaware even himself if the gratitude is for the words, or for the meal.

 

His hands wrap instinctively around the sides of the bowl, the sleeves of his pajama shirt stretched over his hands like oven mitts to dull the heat emanating through the ceramic. He places the bowl down on the table in front of him and takes the offending fork that Iwaizumi had welded against him. Iwaizumi leaves only long enough to grab his own bowl before joining Oikawa at the table.

 

“Eat it,” Iwaizumi demands. He pushes a glass of milk along the table to Oikawa. “No complaining."

 

"Fine,” Oikawa sniffs, airy, twirling a few noodles around his fork. “ _Mom,”_ he adds for good measure.

 

The first bite makes his mouth sting. Oikawa takes a hefty gulp of the milk and it just barely curbs the heat on his tongue.

 

"I hate spicy, Iwa-chan!”

 

"It was the only thing I could make taste good from the crap in your kitchen," Iwaizumi tells him through a mouthful of noodles.

 

“Why are you punishing me today?” Oikawa whines.

 

Iwaizumi stares consideringly at the bouquet for a while, holding his fork between his teeth. He finally says, "You used to be nice to him.” A second later he clarifies, "Kageyama."

 

“How dare you spread this slander about me,” Oikawa gasps, straightening a glare at his best friend. A practiced hand taps his chest, just over his heart. “In my own _home_ , Iwa-chan.”

 

Iwaizumi continues unphased, "I used to think you liked the guy until you were hellbent on hating him."

 

_Liked._

 

The word sits down heavy in his chest, then plummets to his stomach like a boulder. Oikawa lets his fork plop down in his bowl and listens to it grate on the porcelain until it settles against the rim. "I was just being nice, you know. “

 

Iwaizumi snorts.

 

" _You_ were?” He takes another slow bite. “So why'd you stop?”

 

Oikawa hums. “Don't remember. Probably Tobio-chan’s fault.”  

 

“It felt kind of sudden,” Iwaizumi presses on. “One day you were fairly tolerant, then you went on leave and came back a complete dick to him for no reason.”

 

“I don’t know,” Oikawa mutters, gaze unwaveringly ahead. Without looking he finishes his drink, plopping it on the table with a hollow thunk. “Guess I was bitter.”

 

“About that genius shit?”

 

The vase of butterfly bushes stares back at Oikawa and he swallows thickly. On his tongue is a plethora of tastes, from bitter to spicy to iron. He wonders, distantly, if most flowers taste the same, outside of roses or lavenders and the sort people made into teas and bath salts. Were some sweeter or tangier on the tongue, or did they all taste of dirt and bitterness?

 

“Yeah,” he says.

 

Iwaizumi makes a thoughtful noise. A second later he stands to refill his bowl and takes Oikawa's glass with him. The motion knocks the closer petals off the table's edge and Oikawa startles momentarily to watch his friend disappear behind the archway to the kitchen once more. The fridge door makes an audible _pop_ and soon enough the trickle of milk follows.

 

“You’re almost out,” Iwaizumi tells him. Oikawa frowns when the fridge door opens once more for Iwaizumi to place the carton back in, no doubt in his mind that _almost_ means _practically already gone_ and not worth keeping.

 

It is a mistake, though, when he takes a haughty little breath in through his mouth to forge another lecture on the matter. The tang of spice rejuvenates itself and _stings_ , and certainly there’s a red pepper flake stuck somewhere between his teeth that no amount of pushing with his tongue will dislodge. But the the sensation refuses to stay stagnant, leaping upwards just behind his eyes and Oikawa feels like he’s choking again.

 

The bouquet sits there, pretty and pleased and haunting him with its quiet stare.

 

Oikawa pulls his legs up to his chest, adjusting further back in his seat to find purchase for his feet on the ledge of the chair, toes curling down like a fasten and it is inevitable to wonder, when he had only just been the subject of conversation, what unrequited love had tasted like on Kageyama's tongue.

 

“Daisies,” Oikawa guesses aloud. “Maybe sunflowers?”

 

“What are you talking about?”  

 

“Just guessing Chibi-chan’s favorite flowers,” Oikawa says flippantly. His finger taps incessantly against his own forearm. “I bet it’s those _god awful_ looking one’s. Oh, what were they called? _Birds of Paradise._ ”

 

"Those gaudy things seem like they'd be up your alley," Iwaizumi chuckles.

 

"I have better tastes than that!" Oikawa scoffs.

 

“What’s the sudden interest in _him_ now?”

 

“Just wondering what the brat was puking up,” Oikawa says. “They probably didn’t tell you.”

 

There's a short clatter, metal scraping against metal that echoes irksomely in Oikawa's ears.

 

“Forget me nots.”

 

Oikawa stills, one finger posed in the air, mid tap. “Chibi-chan’s favorites?”

 

"Not sure," Iwaizumi says nonchalantly. Oikawa doesn't have to see it to imagine the exact shrug he makes. "But that's what he said Kageyama was throwing up."

 

"Oh." Oikawa says. The finger finishes through it’s motion and curls tightly with the rest of them around his arm. It is not enough to push back the smarting behind his eyes, and the pressure he’d been fighting to keep quelled gives way.

 

It is too late to wipe his face before Iwaizumi returns, absolutely alarmed to see the fresh track of tears.

 

It is too late for many things, now, Oikawa knows.

 

“It’s too spicy, Iwa-chan,” he snuffles in answer to the unposed question.

 

Under the scrutiny of his gaze, Oikawa grabs at his own bowl again and swallows a forkful of the noodles and quickly downs another half cup of milk when Iwaizumi relinquishes it to his outstretched, shaky hands. Yet Iwaizumi doesn’t seem convinced even as he takes back his seat.

 

“It’s ironic, you know?” Oikawa says finally. His voice crackles in his own ears and he plucks a tissue from the box sitting behind the vase. The branches look as if someone has smacked them alongside a fence, much less flourishing than they had been when Iwaizumi arrived first at his door. He wonders if the stalk will last longer than the weekend.

 

The feeling of eyes on him does not falter and Oikawa takes another burning gulp down before setting his bowl on the table amongst the petals littering the surface. With a deep breath in he continues, “Those are my favorites.”

**Author's Note:**

> @god-fucking-dammit-mizutani on tumblr!


End file.
